


outlaw king.

by eoghainy



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst and Romance, Evolution, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: a king without a throne isn’t a king at all.





	outlaw king.

**Author's Note:**

> a few pointers before we get into this! 
> 
> this is an ( unfortunately ) unbet’a work, so if someone spots any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors, or repeating / contrasting information, please let me know. this is a fanfiction that is heavily inspired by black panther; i started this when the film was in theaters with every intention to finish it, and let it sit for however long until recently. the film gave me a bunch of muse and ideas for where this fic is going, so hopefully i can keep my motivation up to see this through. 
> 
> so, i will add tags & the like as chapters get posted, and update the rating as well when we get there. i also write this version of trunks with the personality of future trunks, though with the life of current trunks (there is but one timeline in this work, though i will be hinting at the existence of others). please bear with me with the slow updates! i plan for each chapter to be long, as this first chapter was 32 pages & 17,321 words in microsoft. thanks so much for support & patience!
> 
> also, lmao, there are hints at TFS in this. i fuckin’ love that shit.
> 
> chapter modified on 1/04/2020

A sea of countless Saiyans faced the young prince, their eyes dark and reflecting the light of the half-moon. Expectant and excited, they stared, the force of their combined gazes making the anxious half-Saiyan sweat. Royal blue hues flicker from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face, taking each and every single one in, recognizing now that they were _his_  subjects. They would learn to love and adore him, like they had sort of adored his late father. Sort of being the key two words. They’d look up to _him_ , idolize _him_ ; they’d heed his words as if they were a gospel. After they witness his prowess, they’d fall in line behind him one by one, pledging themselves to him without fail. It would be everything that he had dreamed of.

_You can do this. You were_ born  _for this. Just move your legs and accept the gift the Elders offer._

Trunks’ entire body felt like it was made of lead, so impossibly heavy. His left leg tenses up as he forces himself to move, and he takes an unsteady step forward to where his mother waited patiently beside the Elders. Though grief had aged her, she still looked youthful and vibrant, and her eyes gleamed with a mixture of love and pride as he came closer. Just her presence here alone was bringing him a type of strength he didn’t know he was lacking. The force of her affection for him was enough to steady his frayed and shot nerves. If all else failed, he always had his mother. He would  _always_ have her.

All throughout his childhood, his mother used to whisper to him about how he would grow up to be a wonderful king; one that would be leagues better than his father. She’d speak of the mercy and gentleness that he could offer their people, but speak also of the firmness and the will of iron to remind their – _his_  – people that he wasn’t weak. She’d spin tales of him being a wise and fair ruler, one that would cease the wars that were gripping their small planet and draining it down to nothing. She would praise his halfling heritage rather than tear it down, saying that that was what made him _strong_. Her never-ending love and support for him was one of the most powerful things in his life, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.

As Trunks grew ever closer to his mother, her kind eyes still encouraging every step that he was struggling to take, a noise that suspiciously sounded like a muffled laugh came across his hearing. The sound rang within his ears, a symphony of his worst fears coming to light. His face heated up as a flush spread across his high cheekbones, his embarrassment quickly becoming incredibly clear. It echoed, growing louder and louder as it was shared throughout the thick crowd of Saiyans. Each and every Saiyan that he could see seemed to have their heads tilted back and their mouths open wide in a full-bodied laugh, their bodies shaking with their amusement. Some bold Saiyans even pointed directly at him as they howled, whilst the others sat on the ground or keeled over with their growing need to catch their breath.

Now trembling with the force of his embarrassment, the prince looked around in desperation, searching for anything that would take the attention off of him. His mother was looking on in horror as even his younger sister laughed at him, her beautiful face contorted into a sinister mask. Her tail lashed at her side, the fine brown fur fluffed out to a near bristle around the thick cartilage. Her laughter rang the loudest within his ears, the betrayal of it striking him to his core. He turned away, unable to face the crowd of Saiyans nor his own family. How could he when he was a planetary laughing stock?

_“He will never be a king.”_

Gasping for breath, the lavender haired prince bolted upright in his sweat-soaked bed, startled royal blue hues finding the familiar sight of his fireplace, with its intricate stonework. While his body gradually came to the realization that he was awake, his gaze tore from the fixated point and flickered to his sheets, a wince being given once he realized that they would have to be cleaned. Chest still heaving despite the passing moments, Trunks placed a shaking hand over his bare breast, feeling the rapid beating of his heart underneath his cold fingertips. Sweat was still beading at his temples and had dampened his scalp. His eyes closed as he focused on slowing breathing, forcing his body to come back under his control. This was absolutely  _no_  state to be in before his ceremony.

“Prince Trunks?” A knock sounded at the door. The half-breed glanced towards it, unable to help his frown. Shit. “Are you alright?”

_Damn, my ki must have given my surprise away. I don't want the whole damn palace to know that I had a nightmare_. Trunks thought, quietly shaking his head as he drew the sheets more securely around his waist. He _was_  fine; just deeply unsettled. Nightmares weren’t uncommon before big events like this, he knew that. But it didn’t stop them from being annoying and incredibly inconvenient.

“I’m fine, Negi,” Trunks’ voice was clipped, holding the hints of a snap. “You don’t have to guard me every moment of every day.” His sharp tone was regretted almost instantly, but Trunks didn’t take it back. A prince didn’t apologize, not for trivial things such as this. “. . . Please, check on my sister, see if she is awake yet.”

“As you wish, my prince.” Negi replied, and his footsteps quickly disappeared down the hall. Trunks tried to ignore the hurt he heard in his voice. 

Sighing, Trunks scrubbed his soft hands across his face, almost as if he could chase his nightmare away so easily. Today was, unfortunately, the biggest day in his entire life; in a few short hours, he was going to become the crowed king of Planet Vegeta if everything went to plan. Almost every Saiyan alive would be there to welcome him, call his name, watch as he accepted his birthright and ascended to something far greater than they ever could. It should have been exciting, right? It was not. The only thing it did was wake uncharacteristic dread in his stomach that ate a pit all the way through to his core.

Trunks had always known this day would come, but he just wished it hadn’t arrived so _soon_. His father had had so much left to teach him before he died, and Trunks felt far from confident that he could be the great king that his mother always believed he would be. He was still young and still naïve in his own way, woefully unprepared to lead a bunch of bloodthirsty warriors that would rush headlong into their own destruction time and time again if they didn’t have someone to contain them. And with Trunks being so young, so headstrong, so much like the wildest of his race – he feared that he was the wrong person for the job.

Exhaustion made his limbs heavy as Trunks swung his legs over the side of his bed, his bare feet pressing against the cold stone floor. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into his bed and sleep the day away, but he had to do this. It was better to get it over with as soon as possible, right? Just pull himself together long enough to get through the long ceremony, and then have the best and most restful sleep of his entire life. It seemed so simple when it was put into relative terms like that. It wasn’t like he was preparing to fight for his life, or preparing to become responsible for every single damn Saiyan on this planet.

Getting to his feet and shrugging on a robe, Trunks padded into the washroom attached to his bedroom, hesitated, and chose not to turn on the lights. Gentle sunshine filtered in through the skylight as always, and that would be enough. With a determined set to his jaw, Trunks turned on the tap and let it run cold, breathing out a long and slow sigh, feeling as if he were still coming down from the too real feeling of his nightmare. For a while, he stood there and watched as the pristine water ran, dazing as his thoughts drifted towards the day’s events. What brought him back to the present was the pinching stiffness between his shoulder blades, and the dull ache at the small of his back. God, he was so stiff. 

With a sharp, steadying exhale, Trunks leaned over and splashed the icy water on his face to wash away the lingering remnants of his dream, and finally met his own gaze in the glass, unsurprised by how much of a toll the nightmares have taken upon his body – and more noticeably, his face. He had been having them on and off for weeks now, ever since his father passed away. Usually about the death of Vegeta, but more recently, about his ceremony.

The same face he had always seen in this mirror stared back at him now. The same thin nose in his angular, sharp face; same long, lavender hair that was tangled into a big mess around his shoulders and needed a good brushing immediately. Same rosé rounded lips that he got from his mother; same long, black eyelashes that were longer than any Saiyan had a right to. The same white scar, noticeable only to him, tracing the curve of his forehead. The same lavender brows that were lightly feathered and well-groomed; the same naturally tanned skin, free of pores. It was all so  _familiar_. In a way, it soothed him to know that even if all else changed, his reflection never would.

Okay. His reflection might change a bit, but not so dramatically that he could never recognize himself.

His father had often commented in his youth that he looked too _soft_ , too _pretty_ , to be a proper Saiyan prince – but his mother always countered Vegeta’s harshness, claiming that her son was more ‘princely’ looking than any other before him. Whatever that meant. ( _Trunks often wondered if she was referring to human tales of beautiful and kind princes that didn’t turn into giant monkeys at the full moon, but he didn’t dare ask for fear of one of her infamous tangents about human lore that often confused him._ ) Trunks tended to agree with his father on this topic; he  _was_ too pretty. It had been one of the things that made him insecure as a boy. His friends were all hardened and masculine, whereas Trunks looked delicate and effeminate. His body might reflect his strength now, but his face still held the beauty that had always bothered him.

Yet, with the familiarity that met his gaze in the mirror also came with the new, the strange. Dark circles curved under his eyes, looking like ugly bruises that wouldn’t fade. His irises, looking like chips of ice in the direct sunlight, looked washed out and devoid of the radiant color that once captured so many. His face looked drawn, so thin; almost like he had lost some weight from exhaustion. _(Was that possible? Trunks didn’t think so, but at this point he was willing to believe_ _it_.) Deep lines were etched around his mouth from his constant frowning and the pursing of his lips, and Trunks smoothed out his face immediately, hoping that his skin wouldn’t wrinkle permanently. Saiyans might have better elasticity to their skin, but wrinkles were inevitable and he wanted to prevent those for as long as possible. Such a vain thought, but he was barely cresting twenty; wrinkles were not something that he wanted to see for a long time yet.

Trunks had always known that everyone under this planets three suns thought that he had a beautiful face, but also thought that this beauty was cancelled out by the default angry expression he had inherited from his father. He didn’t ever think much of his looks - aside from being self-conscious about them - and didn’t see why everyone had to make a big deal out of them. His mother always called him handsome, but mothers were _required_  to do so. Ever since he had entered into the Saiyan stage of puberty, the females of their race had been fawning over him every step of his life from then on, and Trunks wasn’t sure if it was his looks that was causing it or their instinctual need to mate. Either way, Trunks didn’t appreciate it. He was far from ready to settle down.

Even though he was a prince ( _his mother said that human princes never fought battles, they had men in heavy armor do it for them._ ), Trunks wasn’t as perfectly preserved as his younger sister. His skin was a book of the fights and training sessions he had survived; on every square inch there was a mark that came from a ki blast, a fist, or a weapon that was strong enough to cut Saiyan flesh successfully. His body told a tale of hardship that his pampered life did not reflect.

The ki blast scars were the worst ones of them all. Trunks’ back and chest were covered in them, all the poorly healed over skin layered atop one another. Despite how smooth Trunks’ face appeared to be, how it seemed to be free of damage, there were scars that were only visible if you invaded his personal space. He was a warrior to his core, not some pampered perfect preserved little princeling like his mother had wanted him to be. His father had made _sure_ of that.

The cold water was refreshing as he washed his face and smoothed down his hair. Briefly, he contemplated taking a shower, but ultimately decided against it. He turned off the tap and watched as the soapy water drained away, taking with it the last remnants of his nightmare.

Drying off his face with one of the towels hanging behind him, Trunks brushed his teeth and followed up with brushing his hair, really taking his time to comb the wily, thick locks into submission. The monotonous motions and the ease of brushing out the tangles soothed him. His mother used to tell him that when he was a baby, and being particularly fussy, all she’d have to do is start stroking his hair and he’d begin to come back to himself. It was a strange little trick that had followed him into adulthood, for even now he found that just running a hand through his hair, or a brush, would be enough to calm himself down. Could it be a kinky thing? Trunks wasn’t sure, and he _really_ wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Pushing the thoughts from his mind, Trunks slid back into his robe and headed out of his bathroom, surprised to find that whilst he had been washing up and getting ready that someone had been in his room. One of the palace servants must have laid out his ceremonial robes on his bed for him - and made it, damnit. The sheets were new, and they were tucked in. The covers were pulled up as well, so it truly was impossible for him to crawl back into bed.

Trunks picked up the robes idly, letting the beautifully silky fabric run over his fingertips. He typically didn’t indulge in clothing like this, instead foregoing it for armor that felt like a second skin. The only time he really wore anything that showed his status was when he was needed for specific appearances, and even then, Trunks tended to complain until being forced to give in. But not today, there would be no complaining today. None that anyone would hear, anyway. He set the fine silks back down where he had found them and dressed instead in a white over-shirt and pants, deciding it’d be safer to wear his lounge clothes to breakfast. Sometimes, with the boys, it had a habit of getting messy.

Slipping into the slippers they had left at the foot of his bed, Trunks rose to his feet and gently brushed off any stray hairs and dust off of his clothes before heading out of his room. The hallway outside was unusually cool as Trunks hovered by his closed door, hand lingering by the brass doorknob as he took a steadying breath. There was no life energy that he could sense in the nearby area, so he relaxed, not needing nor wanting to be so wound up just yet. His footsteps were almost silent as he walked through the winding passageways, navigating his way easily to his sister’s room. He passed Negi on the way, who relayed the message that Bra was awake and able to see him if he wished. 

“You can go,” Trunks dismissed when Negi looked like he was going to fall in step behind him. “It’s just the palace – I don’t need you to hover.” Out of all of them that lived here, Trunks absolutely did not need a guard. He was one of the handful of Saiyans that had reached the legendary Super Saiyan status, so clearly he could take care of himself. Even if it meant nothing now that Kakarot was always finding new ways beyond it, it was still something that Trunks tended to cling to. He watched Negi’s retreating form disappear around a corner before turning towards his sister’s door, ignoring the twinge of guilt that gripped at his chest.

Lightly knocking upon Bra’s door, Trunks waited until she called for him to come in before opening it up. He had respect, unlike their mother. The young Saiyan princess was sitting on a stool in front of her floor-length mirror with her legs swinging, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as a servant braided her long, bright blue hair. She was already wearing her own ceremonial gown – a royal blue dress with fine lace trimming that made her hair seem like it was made of spun silver – and paint had been applied to her face. Red circles that were half the size of Trunks’ small finger lined underneath her eyes, around her mouth, and across her cheekbones; highlighting the most tender aspects of her youthful, tiny face. Bra’s mouth twisted into a wide, cheeky grin when she spotted him, and met his gaze through the mirror. She seemed to, thankfully, be in a good mood this morning. Trunks didn’t know if he could handle her and her mini-Vegeta attitude today.

“Good morning, Bra,” he greeted, and she hummed in response. “You look beautiful.” Leaning down, Trunks pecked her cheek and tasted the starchy powder taste of foundation. Up close, he could see the makeup hiding her nonexistent flaws. Bra, it seems, had developed their mother’s insecurities. She was far too young and far too beautiful for makeup like their mother’s. He just wished that she believed him when he would tell her these things.

“Thank you,” Bra blinked her wide eyes at him and thanked her servant before she hopped off the stool. Her tail was tucked safely around her waist, the fur looking soft and freshly groomed. Trunks was thankful that she was _finally_ listening to him; he had been afraid that it would take someone hurting Bra through her own carelessness before she would learn. This way was just much easier, and it meant that Trunks didn’t have to worry about her. As _much_. Bra was always going to be on his ever-growing list of concerns.

Sliding into her heels, which gave her an extra inch of height, Bra spun once to give Trunks a full view of her full skirts before she slipped her arm into his outstretched one. She was warm and small against his side; Trunks was battling the big brotherly urge to swoop her into his arms and carry her to their destination: the kitchen. She would certainly get pissed at him for that, and it would ruin their temporary truce. Instead, he contented himself for patting her hair, careful not to muss up the careful work the servants had done.

Together, they walked out of her room and into the hall, with Trunks dismissing Bra’s personal guard with an incline of his head. She might not be a Super Saiyan yet, but he was. “Are you nervous?” Bra pried once they were out of earshot, her tone not unkind. She might be a little brat at the best of times, but she knew Trunks better than he knew himself most days. That should scare him.

Trunks, walking slowly to accommodate for Bra’s little legs, mulled over his response carefully. “Yes, I am. It isn’t every day that you become the crowned king in front of the _entire planet_.” He sighed, a heavy, drawn sound that betrayed his deeper unease. Bra did not comment on it. “I wish father had been able to walk me through it more before he died. Or, at the very least, leave me with an instruction manual.”

“Father always told me it was a _secret_ ceremony.” Trunks could feel Bra’s eyes on his face, so he avoided her gaze by staring straight ahead. She could see too much on his face if he let her. “He would say that he wasn’t allowed to tell me because I was a _princess_ , and that it wouldn’t apply to me. How sexist is that?”

“The ceremony can’t be _that_ secret if the entire planet comes to witness it, can it?” Trunks finally met her steady gaze with his own, seeing only curiosity dwelling in her eyes. “It is one that is shared by all of us together. It is not just _my_ day; it is _our_ day. Father just liked to add a sense of secrecy to it, I suppose. He always was the dramatic type. And yes, Bra, you are correct; it is sexist. Father could be like that sometimes. I’m not sure why this is surprising to you.”

Bra _hmph_ ’ed at him, her beautiful blues now glittering with annoyance. How quickly her moods tended to sour. “I wish he were still alive so I could punch him in his stupid face,” she muttered, growing fidgety at his side. Trunks patted her shoulder reassuringly, understanding just how she felt. He’d have agreed with her, but they had entered earshot of several of their oldest and most loyal servants, so he didn’t dare. His father may have been a giant ass, but he had been well loved and well respected. Trunks didn’t know why; Vegeta had never been kind to any of their staff. He supposed that was the reason right there; Saiyans were so _obsessed_ with castes and ranks.

Regardless of that matter, most Saiyans were so _literal_. If Trunks even joked about his father, their household staff would see it as a slight against his memory. Neither Trunks nor Bra were interested in pissing off the ones that brought them their food and their clothes a majority of the time, so their comments about their father were often kept to a minimum at best, or often spoken behind closed doors.

“Will you be cheering for me at the ceremony?” Trunks asked Bra, changing the subject and interrupting the silence between them. He was genuinely curious about how his sister felt about him being crowned. She was far too young to rule their planet, but perhaps one day down the line, she would. Planet Vegeta had never had a true queen before . . . Maybe that would change. Trunks didn’t want her to be jealous of him, not when their relationship had just started to just crest the imposing hill of sibling rivalry after the death of their father. Despite how difficult Bra seemed to make everything, he wanted to be close with her; he wanted to guide her, to show her a better path than the one their father had taken. He missed her answer in his reflection of their relationship, albeit. Shit. He should learn to listen more. It had to have been a good answer, for her expression was clear of any bitterness. It almost seemed . . . gentle. Loving. What a _weird_ expression to see on her face.

“Good morning, Prince Trunks, Princess Bra,” interrupted and greeted one of their favored household guard, Gohan. “I trust you both slept well?” 

“You can drop the polite face with us, Gohan,” Trunks waved his hand as he slipped his arm out of Bra’s. “No need for formalities amongst friends. Besides, no one else is listening.” 

Gohan blinked as a small smile began to play at the corners of his lips. A burst of familiar warm affection woke in Trunks’ chest. “I’m pleased to see that your soon-to-be-new status isn’t inflating your head.” He teased with all the affection of an older brother. It brought more comfort to Trunks than it should. “Your father would _not_ have approved of such friendships.”

“My father had a head that was bigger than this _planet_ , Gohan. He resented your father for many things, and expected us to be the same towards you and Goten.” Trunks braced his hands against the back of a chair, the sleek wood feeling cool beneath his fingertips. Bra sat down across from him at the wide glass table, her sharp eyes missing not a thing. “I am not my father.”

The relationship that their families shared was . . . complicated and convoluted, to say in the least. Kakarot was the second-born son of a lower class Saiyan warrior named Bardock, and had had a strange relationship with their late King Vegeta. Kakarot’s elder brother, Raditz, had been one of Vegeta’s first friends. That term being used incredibly loosely. Kakarot, being born several years after the two boys, was the tag-along annoying little brother that neither wanted around; but he had proved to be a better friend, and a more loyal servant than Raditz ever could. Vegeta and Kakarot had always had a rivalry that bordered upon something akin to friendship, with them both competing to be the strongest Saiyan warrior, but their frail relationship took a turn for the worse when Kakarot achieved Vegeta’s biggest dream; becoming the first Super Saiyan warrior in well over five hundred years. Sure, Vegeta soon followed in Kakarot’s footsteps, but that hadn’t been enough for him. The knowledge of him being lesser had been too much for Vegeta’s sore pride.

Their rivalry became even uneasier between them from then on. Somehow, along the way after the Super Saiyan’s were brought back into existence, their rivalry turned itself around into a strange form of friendship but also not-friendship at the same time, though Vegeta would have never admitted to it being anything close to that. Because of his inherent dislike for Kakarot, Vegeta had never approved of his children spending time with either of Kakarot’s children, but was unable to stop them from doing so. They all lived in the palace together, after all. Plus, Bulma approved of their friendships, and that was all the permission that the children had needed.

Vegeta had once told Trunks when he was a child that Kakarot’s family had been indebted to the royal family for many, many centuries. He had said that he didn’t know how the debt came to be, but there was evidence that the debt was real ( _and not just something that some king came up with during some power trip._ ). The Elders had it recorded in their sacred tomes that no one aside from them were allowed to read, how convenient, and had said the royal family had not deemed it satisfied at any given point over the years, so it would remain ongoing until then. Also very convenient.

The terms of the debt were along the lines of generalized indentured servitude. Kakarot’s ancestor agreed that his family would serve the royal family until the debt was satisfied, and would serve in any way that was requested of them – even if it meant that they would die in the process. In the beginning, they had been true fighters; allies in the wars against invading races and in the conquest of planets, but as the peaceful times came and as the planet trade came to a halt, they were downgraded to simple household duties.

Because of this debt, the lower-class children often grew up right alongside the princes and princesses. They took all their classes together and fought together, and most of the time were great friends when the circumstance allowed for it. Vegeta’s case with Raditz and Kakarot was different; he had always been a difficult person to like and get along with, and he thought himself better than everyone. Raditz had also thought himself better than everyone else and was a difficult person to like and get along with, so putting them together in the first place had been a major mistake.

Unlike his father, Trunks had been better able to get along with their indebted friends. Gohan had been eight when he was born; he had set most of the examples that Trunks had learned from. A year after his birth, Goten – Kakarot’s second son – was born. He and Goten were the best of friends, wrecking terror and havoc upon the palace from the moment that they were able to walk. Finally, Bra came along nine years later, completing their odd bunch. It had pissed Vegeta off that the four of them were so close, so much like family, and there had been _nothing_ that he could do to prevent it. Trunks sometimes wondered if his father had been jealous of their easy relationships, but he would never dare say something like that in front of him. Or to his face. Even though it didn’t seem it sometimes, Trunks _did_ value his life.

Time and time again Vegeta had lectured Trunks and Bra both about how they shouldn’t affiliate themselves with lower-class scum, but both of them had refused to listen. Vegeta may not have considered Kakarot his friend, but the sentiment didn’t go both ways; Kakarot was always referring to Vegeta as his best buddy, much to the late monarch’s annoyance. There had even been talk of Bra marrying Goten at one point, though it didn’t go much further than ‘talk’. Trunks was guessing that his father had dug his heels in on that one, no matter what was offered to him.

“Ah yes, he did. Vegeta always thought so highly of himself.” Gohan’s steadying voice brought Trunks back to the present. He barely had time to register what he had said before the tone became chiding. “Trunks, you should eat before the ceremony. You’re going to need all the strength and energy you can get.” Trunks found that he didn’t mind the pushiness; it made his lips quirk up at the obscene _normalcy_ of it.

“Did you cook any breakfast?” Bra piped up, becoming excited at the prospect of food. Her eyes were practically gleaming. For such a small thing, she certainly had a Saiyan appetite. She could match Goten serving for serving when she was really in the mood to be grubby.

Gohan’s expression quickly turned stern. “I’m not your chef, Bra.”

“But I _am_ your princess, and Trunks is going to be your _king_.” She quipped conversationally, bringing up two good points. Points that Gohan couldn’t argue with, not without rank being pulled. It wasn’t often Gohan was rendered speechless, so Trunks committed his surprised and exasperated expression to memory.

Gohan glared playfully at Bra, but nonetheless began rifling through their extravagant kitchen for pans to cook with, and started to pull out containers of food while he was at it. Feeling guilty that Gohan was always cooking for them in one way or another, Trunks joined Gohan at the counter, ignoring Gohan when he protested. It would go much faster with the two of them doing it together.

With Bra babbling about something or other in the background, and Gohan answering her here and there, Trunks did as he was bid by Gohan, and barely noticed when Goten finally joined them. The young Saiyan immediately started up with yawning and complaining about his poor night’s sleep, but broke off into a yelp as Bra yanked on his messy hair to get him to shut up about it. Trunks could feel the force of Goten’s playful glare from here.

“Be nice,” Gohan murmured, in the habit of stopping a fight before it began, all without turning away from the currently cooking meat.

Trunks looked over his shoulder at the two younger Saiyans, unable to help the soft smile that pulled at his lips. They were bickering amongst themselves, Goten teasing Bra and Bra calling him rude names that he couldn’t return without insulting her. _She’s just like our mother,_ Trunks thought to himself as he watched her stick her tongue out at Goten and fix him with her best glare. _She’s more of a true Saiyan than I am. They both are_.

Once Trunks was finished scrambling the eggs, he and Gohan moved their food onto serving platters. Gohan had already sliced up the meat - a strange hunk of flesh from some animal that wasn’t native to Planet Vegeta - and gotten out  _tava_ fruit, which was native here. “Can you do the coffee?” Gohan asked gently as he reached above his head for plates. Obliging, Trunks moved behind him and got out the grounds and three cups, and found that there was already water in the pot. It was done boiling by the time Gohan had dished out four Saiyan appropriate sized servings onto each plate, and together they handed out breakfast and coffee. Bra being the only one who didn’t drink coffee yet.

Sitting down at the table next to Gohan, Trunks reached immediately for his coffee cup and found himself wrinkling his nose once he smelled it. The only type of coffee they had was from a nearby planet, and did he fucking  _hate_ it. It was too bitter and far too spicy for his liking, but it was coffee, so he put up with it. Planet Vegeta used to provide itself with coffee beans, but that was yet another thing on their quickly growing extinction list. So, they had to source from other planets, which in Trunks’ opinion was a mistake. It gave them strange-tasting meat, awful coffee, and made things feel like they were out of place. But what other choice did they have on this dying hunk of space rock?

Pushing his food around on his plate with a fork, Trunks barely listened as Gohan and Goten nosily dug into their plates, both trying to get as much food into them as possible. On the other side of it, Bra was making a show out of eating politely. As prim and proper as she pretended to be, Bra always was the first to laugh at Goten’s ridiculous attempts to talk around all the food that he could afford to cram into his mouth without choking. His gaze landed back down upon his plate as he speared a piece of fruit on the tongs of his fork, finding that his stomach felt too unsettled to eat. Just the thought of the approaching ceremony was enough to make him sick. Trunks had never been in the habit of wasting food, especially not with the huge appetites in the palace, but he just couldn't bear the idea of eating if it was going to come back up in a few minutes.

“Hey, _Trunks_ ,” Goten was staring at him, fingers snapping near his face to get his attention. “Are you gonna finish that?” His friend was practically salivating. Trunks looked down at Goten's plate and found it practically licked clean, then looked back up at his friend blankly. Goten's eyes were so wide, so hopeful; so he shook his head. _Sorry, Gohan. Your food is great, but I just can’t eat right now._

“No, you can have it,” Trunks said as he passed his plate to the other Saiyan, ignoring Gohan’s concerned gaze as it fell upon him. He didn’t feel like explaining his nerves to Gohan, not when he knew Gohan’s rational response would be to console him. He didn’t want the issue to be soothed away so easily. As stupid as it sounded, Trunks  _wanted_ to feel this.

“Thanks!” Goten chirped, so easily made happy with such a small offering of food. At least it wasn’t going to end up going to waste after all.

“Excuse me,” Trunks murmured as he pushed away from the table, and exited the room in quick strides. He could feel three collective, questioning gazes burning into his back as he left. As he took the long way back to his room through dark barely used corridors, Trunks forced his stomach and his nerves to settle with the reassurance that an empty and silent palace alone could give him. Like his father, he was more of a recluse; he wasn’t much of a socialite, even though he was charming enough to pass as one when he put in the effort. 

Finally reaching his room, Trunks headed inside with a shaky, relieved exhale. Making sure that his door was shut tightly, he headed towards the double doors leading out to his balcony that overlooked the palace garden and threw them open, relishing in the clean air that washed over him. The usually oppressive sunlight from the planets three suns hit his skin, warming and reassuring him instantly. He had always enjoyed the sunlight on days like these, where he wasn’t at risk of burning his hide off. Peaceful silence met his eardrums and Trunks gave a noise of appreciation, knowing that soon enough his ears would be filled with the overwhelming sounds of countless Saiyans calling his name and congratulating him. This was his calm before the oncoming storm that would threaten to rip him apart.

“Trunks, baby, are you alright?” He didn’t hear his mother enter his room, but he wasn’t surprised. She always had had a bad habit of not knocking before she entered, and that had led to some very awkward moments in his early teenage years. Trunks could hear her heels against the stone flooring. _Click, click, click, click_. He didn’t turn to look at her. “Gohan told me of how you didn’t eat, even though you helped put together a fresh breakfast. I know the _tava_ fruit is your favorite. I made sure we had it in the kitchen just for you.”

_Of course, Gohan did. Sometimes I wonder about him_. “I’m not hungry.”

“Trunks, you _must_ eat.” She strode out onto the balcony beside him and gently rested her hand upon his shoulder. His mother’s sounded far older than it should and it made Trunks ache for her and what she has gone through recently.

Despite this, Trunks still didn’t look at her. He was finding himself very captivated with the garden currently. “I will, later. Before the ceremony.” Though he loved his mother, her chiding could be overwhelming and annoying at the best of times. He just wanted to be left alone before he had to face the literal entirety of their planet; was that too much to ask?

“You know, I met your father when he was just a prince.” Bulma pulled her hand from his shoulder and instead rested her forearms against the balcony railing. Trunks finally looked at her, his heart finding its usual spot in his throat as he took in her mourning clothes. She was dressed all in black, and her hair – usually so finely done – was twisted into a mess atop her head. Her eyes were rimmed with red and looked puffy. Even though she tried to claim that no longer did she grieve for her husband, the evidence was just too clear to see. Bulma would always grieve for him.

It broke his heart to know that his father had broken hers so carelessly. Vegeta had been young, even by Saiyan standards, when he died. It had been sudden and unexpected, and it just shattered Bulma’s heart. Trunks wasn’t sure if his mother would ever fully recover from it.

“I never told you how we met, did I?” Bulma was looking at him, so Trunks met her gaze finally. Her eyes were so much like his; framed by thick lashes, such a vivid shade of blue, wide and almond shaped. They were human, so human.

Trunks leaned against the railing and mimicked his mother's pose. “No. You didn’t.” _There are a lot of things you didn’t tell me. I had to find out that you had been a slave from Kakarot, remember_. Bitterness was not becoming of a king.

“Well, like I said, your father was a prince when I met him, scouring the entire planet for the toughest Saiyan to face him so that he could defeat them in battle and proclaim himself as the strongest. He wouldn’t let any humans fight him; always said that he would break them in half the second that they challenged him.” Trunks wasn’t surprised, his father was often prejudiced against all races that were lesser to theirs. He used to be especially bad towards humans, considering that their race were slaves on this planet, but his marriage to Bulma had softened him up. Clearly.

“I was . . . working at a tavern in one of the smaller towns out west when your father came in, following the rumors that said a strong fighter resided out in our neck of the woods. He kept pestering me about where this fighter was, and I told him – honestly – that I had no damn clue. Unwilling to give up so soon, he settled in for a drink, and I had to serve him of course, couldn’t turn the business away. But it gave him the idea that as long as he bought drinks, he could bug me at every chance he got. He was the most _annoying_ patron that came in to this day!” Bulma’s tone was exasperated, and Trunks couldn’t blame her. It seemed Vegeta always had that annoying talent of his. Annoying everyone around them until they, somehow, learned to like him. Trunks wished that this was a talent that he also possessed. He just generally wasn’t liked.

“Kakarot was with him – but only because your grandfather ordered him to go with your father. He was too young to drink, so instead, that damn fool ate me out of the bank! Saiyans eat a _lot_ , but the way Kakarot ate was insane. It still is! I was just about at my wits end when your father ran out of patience and moved on to the next strong Saiyan. I was so thankful, and so was my owner; our tavern didn’t make a lot of money, so your father and Kakarot showing up put us out for months. After that, I was always afraid that they were going to come back. I wanted nothing to do with those two idiots of they did.

“Guess what, though? They came back after some time because of Vegeta’s refusal to let things go. He wanted to prove himself strongest; letting an opponent remain unchallenged just wasn’t in his plans. Thankfully, the Saiyan he was looking to fight was in the area this time, so he didn’t come back to annoy me to the point of insanity. I patched up your father’s wounds after his fight – it was a nasty one, and Kakarot is still very useless with the ‘fix it’ part of fighting – and I suppose he took a liking to me. He made an absolute _mess_ of the tavern in the process though, and I lost it. As soon as he was conscious, I went off on him, prince or not. I think I was the first person who ever talked to him on an even level without licking his boots or being afraid of what he’ll do. I think it made him feel . . . lesser? He didn’t like _that_ , but he seemed to like that I didn’t take his shit. 

“I don’t know what made him decide that he wanted me to go with him, but he basically demanded it of my owner. Said that he had use for me, and that as a prince he would not be denied. I argued with him again of course; I didn’t want to with him. He was hateful, angry, and _oh_! Everything he said and did just seemed to get on my nerves. I had no choice in the matter though, I had to go with him. It was a very, _very_ long journey from my hometown to the palace.” Bulma looked fondly out over the gardens, her delicate index finger twisting the wedding ring on her finger. She still wore it. Trunks didn’t think he had seen her take it off.

“I went with him under the guise of a servant. Somewhere along the way to the royal colony, I suppose, I fell in love with him. Maybe it was how handsome your father was, or how witty and charming he could be when he really wanted to be, I don’t know. But somewhere along the way, I fell, and it scared me. I joined the palace staff upon arrival as requested, and while Vegeta wanted me to serve him, I mostly served his mother instead. Oh, Trunks, you would have loved your grandmother. She was such a sweet woman – so curious about anything and everything and so open. She knew I loved your father, and she advised me on it. In fact, she was like my own mother. She would have loved you, Trunks. Both you and Bra. I wish you had gotten the chance to meet her.

“Your father and I, though, started to meet in secret after she gave me that final push. I don’t know where his feelings turned along the way, but they did, and while I was unsure about it all . . . I also knew that I loved him and that wasn’t going to change. Your grandfather, King Vegeta, would not tolerate any interspecies relationship underneath his roof, so your father and I waited to marry and go public with our relationship until after his passing. We got married with the blessing of your grandmother, and just a few short years later, we had you.”

Bulma looked at Trunks, her eyes glossy. Affectionately, she cupped his jaw with her cold palm, her thumb gently stroking against his skin. “Your father was nervous about his own ceremony, I remember. You know exactly how your father was; arrogant, so quick to anger, so _easy_ to provoke into snapping. Your father managed to hold his tongue throughout his entire coronation, and defeated every challenger that tried to knock him off the throne. As _soon_ as that crown was placed upon his big head, he started to make promises to the people that only _he_ would be able to keep; the Saiyans didn’t believe him at first, though. In fact, they called him many rude names behind his back, which in turn drove your father to strive to be the best.” Bulma rolled her eyes as she spoke. “Trunks, I loved your father, even though I hated him the moment I met him. You, my baby boy, have a lot of your father in you – but you also have much of _me_ in you, too.”

Oh no. Here she goes _again_. Trunks didn’t want to sit through another long talk of how he was the best parts of his parents combined into one awkward being.

“You might not act like the majority of the Saiyan race, but it will be _your rule_ that will temper the cruelty of this planet. Many of the ‘whelps’, as your father would call them, have been waiting a long time for a new king to come into power. This is your chance! The time for change is _right now_.” She moved her hand down to his shoulder and squeezed. “You will make your father and I very proud. There is _nothing_  for you to worry about.” Her cheeks were flushed from her rambling and from the direct sunlight, but it brought color to her face and made her look healthy.

Unable to help himself, doubt plagued his mind. Trunks leaned against his mother, allowing her words to soak into his tired brain. If he didn’t speak now, he wasn’t going to get another chance. “I’m not even a _real_  prince, though. I’m half human. Won’t that make me weak in the eyes of many? It’s already left me so vulnerable growing up.” 

“No, Trunks, it’ll make you _strong_. You have the unique advantage of having a primal Saiyan nature combined with a gentle human nature. Though you’ll always have your instincts for fighting and killing, you’ll also have your instincts to _reason_. It will preserve many of this dying race, and it’ll make you a better ruler. You’ll end up living longer than any other king has before you.” She brushed his hair away from his eyes. Her royal blue hues, burning now with passion, filled slowly with love. “I’ve always believed in you, Trunks. From the first time I held you as a baby, I’ve believed in you.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, though her words didn’t do much to soothe the anxiety still dwelling below the surface. Trunks wanted nothing more than to forget that this was all happening and avoid his problems by crawling off into the safety of his bed, but he had a duty to perform. Bulma believed in him, and no matter what, he couldn’t let his mother down. Not when so much else in this life already has.

“I have something else to tell you,” his mother looked at him with bright, happy eyes. “This will have absolutely no bearing upon your leadership, for you are the eldest son.” _Uh oh._ Whatever this was, it was going to be good. “I’m having another child.”

Fuck.

“I’m three moon cycles along. In a short amount of time, you will have another younger sibling. If it is a boy, I shall name him after your father. Another Prince Vegeta, and here we thought the world would be finally rid of them.” Her tone was very clearly joking, but her eyes were glossy with unshed tears. “I just wanted you to be prepared.”

Trunks nodded slowly, letting the information was over him despite his initial shock and horror. Shock because _what the fuck_ , and horror because he couldn’t handle the idea of a child running around the palace right now. Though, there was some benefit of his mother having a third kid . . . If it was a boy, he could dump this king bullshit onto him and wash his hands clean of it all. The limelight would be off of him and on someone most likely better equipped to handle it. Trunks had always known that this was his birthright, but he didn’t want it. Not like his father had. This was the best gift his mother could have ever given him.  _Fuck. Yes._

“Did you tell Bra?” He asked softly, and his mother shook her head in response.

“Soon. I will tell her before the week is done. I don’t want her to make a fuss and accidentally let it slip to the entire planet on your big day. You know her and her mindlessness.” Bulma cupped her chin with her palm and rested her elbow on the railing, regarding him with her sweet gaze. “You’re the first to know, besides the healers that confirmed it for me. They are always confined to secrecy.” Her expression suddenly became playful. “You do realize that this means you’ll be a sire?”

Trunks’ entire body suddenly filled with panic. “A _sire_? I don’t think I’m ready to be a sire to a cub!”

Bulma laughed loudly, the noise sounding like the soft tinkling of bells. “Your father didn’t want to be a sire, either. He told me that the women of the race took care of the cubs, but I told him that I was _not_ a Saiyan, and I would _not_ be raising a hyperactive alien toddler prince all by myself! It’s not that your father hated being close with you, it’s just that he wasn’t comfortable being a reliable father. But you imprinted on him, just like Vegeta said you would. And you grew out of it in due time, just like Vegeta said you would.

“Your father didn’t really understand the importance of bonding with a child, not that he ever really _wanted_ to. I didn’t either – everything I knew, I learned from your grandmother. She told me that your grandfather didn’t bond with your father, and thusly, wasn’t his sire. Vegeta didn’t tell me who his sire really was, and I didn’t want to pry because it seemed like a sensitive topic.” Bulma whistled. “But your grandmother told me that it could be dangerous for you if you didn’t have a proper sire, it could impact you in your adult years. Create some bad habits. So, to prevent this, I forced your father to spend as much time as possible with you.”

Trunks grimaced at that part. He always got the feeling that Vegeta hadn’t liked him very much, and he supposed that this was why. She carried on as if she hadn’t seen his expression. “Your father, I think out of instinct, would envelop you with his ki and you’d purr, and when your father wasn’t around you’d become inconsolable. I couldn’t understand it – your biology was just too different from mine. We had to move your bed into our room, even though you never used it. You would wriggle into ours until your father put his foot down.”

“Ah, I liked dad’s den then, didn’t I? Doesn’t really sound like me.” Trunks mused, ignoring the eye roll his mother shot him. He didn’t really remember his cub days, for he had grown out of it before he hit his tenth birthday. Vegeta had seen to that.

“I know being a sire is scary to you, Trunks. I was just joking.” She lightly punched his shoulder. “I just wanted an excuse to talk about your father more. The chance doesn’t often present itself these days. It’s like talking about him in any way has become taboo.” So, she had felt it too. _Interesting_. “I think that a baby prince or princess will be good for the planet. Something fresh and new to look forward to.”

Trunks knew his mother was a little old to be having another child, but her age wasn’t going to stop her. She had had two children before – her body would be able to handle it. Yet, there was always a chance that she would die. Humans were so regrettably fragile. Trunks wasn’t sure what the next six moons would bring, especially with how unsettled the planet was going to be with his coronation, but that was a problem for another time.

“I love you, mom,” he murmured abruptly, feeling her startle against him.

“I love you too, Trunksies!” She cooed, and when she went to pull on his cheek, he ducked away, muttering about how he was too old for her to be still calling him pet names. She had just laughed and said that he’d always be her baby, even though that was vaguely horrifying to him. He had to grow up sometime!

Together, they stood in silence on the balcony for some time, overlooking the bustle of life in the gardens. His mother didn’t linger for too much longer; once she grew restless, his mother trailed her hand across his shoulders and retreated inside, being certain to close the double doors behind her. She was leaving Trunks to mull over his thoughts and pull himself together. The ceremony was still weighing heavily on his mind, tormenting him like a bad headache as it grew ever closer.

He spent the hour just resting against the railing, letting his brain run wild with all thoughts of fleeing just to get it out of his system. The only thing that began to disturb him was the growling in his empty stomach, so to rectify this problem, Trunks headed back into his room with fresh determination to eat. He quickly changed into his ceremonial robes - which were really hard to get on, damnit - and took the shortest route possible down to the kitchens. Secret passageways for staff was such a blessing when you were hungry. Immediately, he spotted the dish of leftovers that Gohan left out for him, and was unable to help his silent appreciation for Gohan’s thoughtfulness. Damn that man for being the way he was.

With a grateful noise, Trunks dug in to the cold food without complaint, and silently wished that he had the company of his sister, or Gohan and Goten. Since no one was here, he presumed that Bra was finishing getting ready whereas the two boys were most likely finishing up their duties. The household guards weren’t required to come to the ceremony, especially if they had been slacking upon their chores.

“Are you alright, Trunks?” The prince had completely missed the sound of Gohan’s boots as he entered the room, and jumped in surprise when his gentle voice cut across the quiet. Could wishes really come true if you were lonely enough? “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Gohan apologized quickly. “I saw you finally came to eat, and figured I’d just check in on you. You ran out on breakfast pretty quick.” As he took Trunks in fully, ceremonial robes and all, Gohan began to smile. It was a soft, appreciative thing; something unlike any other that he had seen on Gohan’s face before. “You look . . . you look very princely.” He complimented, and Trunks couldn’t help how he flushed. 

“It’s fine, Gohan. Don’t worry about it. And, thanks, I think.” Trunks cleared his throat and set the platter of food down. His throat felt tight and his stomach unsettled, and he prayed that he didn’t make a fool of himself in front of Gohan _or_ in front of the entire planet. “I, uh, wasn’t feeling great this morning. Nerves.” He couldn’t meet Gohan’s gaze head on. “You will be at my coronation, won’t you?”

Even though he was refusing to look at Gohan, he could feel the other Saiyans steady gaze upon his face. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything in this world.”

Trunks nodded. “Good. I’m glad.” Why was he having such a problem facing Gohan? Taking a deep breath, Trunks picked up his food again and took another big bite, wanting to fill his stomach as much as possible. Eating meant that he’d have energy. If he was going to fight, he had to have energy.

“You didn’t answer my question, Trunks. Are you feeling alright?” Gohan voiced his earlier question and took a step closer, his ki wavering with concern. Whereas Trunks tended to struggle with morality, Gohan just seemed to be so naturally _good_. A trait that was absolutely useless in their species.

Along his hip, Trunks’ tail tip twitched. He could feel the thick fur along the cartilage begin to bristle, and it took a conscious effort to get it to flatten once more. “Fine. Just fine. I want this all to be over with, you know? Once it’s all said and done, I can return to a semi-normal life again, in a sense.” As he shifted in discomfort, the robes tightened around his chest and arms, the fabric not stretching to accommodate his size. Bulma had been reminding him for a moon that he should get the robes tailored, but it had slipped his mind over the weeks, as many things had tended to recently. It didn’t matter, not really. The robes were just going to get destroyed in any fighting that was done. They were literally made to be torn off and thrown away.

“You’ll be a king, Trunks; your life will never be normal again.” Gohan gently reminded him. He leaned past Trunks to grab a piece of meat from his platter, almost being too close for comfort. He was so close that Trunks could smell cinnamon on him. The other Saiyan pulled back once he had what he was looking for. He hoped Gohan didn’t see how the closeness unsettled him. “Does that mean I have to start calling you by your proper titles?” Gohan asked like nothing had happened. Maybe nothing had, and Trunks was just being weird for absolutely nothing.

Trunks snorted around a mouthful of bitter fruit. “If you don’t, I’ll have to beat the shit out of you.”

He could practically _hear_ Gohan roll his eyes. “I found out this morning from my father that my uncle actually challenged your father on his coronation day.” Gohan spoke the words with an air that seemed like it didn’t matter, but Trunks knew there was a hidden question: _did you know_? Before answering, Trunks probed at Gohan’s ki for any signs of hostility, and was relieved when he found nothing. Nothing but his familiar happy, pulsing glow. A unique aura that was just so  _Gohan_. 

Back in the day, when Vegeta had been young, he had been close with two Saiyans around his age – a brute idiot named Nappa, and Raditz, who was as cunning as he was hotheaded. Nappa had been four years older than Vegeta, and Raditz had been two years younger than his father. The three of them had been close in their youth, and when Kakarot came along eight years later, he had hung around the outside of their group; always on the outside looking in. Bulma had told Trunks once that Raditz and Kakarot, despite being family, had never been close – and not just because of their difference in age.

As a teenager looking for challenges, Vegeta had run off with Kakarot. It was supposed to be Raditz that went with him, but Raditz’s son had just been born, and he had been unable to join Vegeta in his quest to humiliate the lesser warriors in their race. But as the three of them grew older – and apart – their already rocky friendship started to strain. Around the time that Vegeta returned to the royal colony with Bulma on his arm and ready to take over for his dying father, Nappa was killed in an uprising led by the Tuffles. He had been the glue holding the three of them together, and once he was gone, Vegeta and Raditz became like strangers.

When Vegeta’s coronation finally came to be, Raditz had challenged Vegeta. As a father with three young kids and a mate, Raditz had seen an opportunity for something better, a chance for honor and power. His mother told him that Vegeta had been willing to keep the killing to a minimum, despite their traditions, but Raditz had taunted too much and pushed too far. In order to keep the respect of the planet, Vegeta had to make an example out of Raditz, to show that he would not tolerate such blatant disobedience. After killing Raditz in a fair fight, he had asked if any other Saiyan wanted to test him. They hadn’t.

Drawing out of his thoughts, Trunks finally gathered himself enough to answer. “It was kill Raditz or be dishonored in front of the entire _planet_. My father wasn’t about to lose his honor,” _or his life_ , “to someone that was in a lower class than he was.” He shrugged, trying to keep his voice casual and even. Trunks had never been too good at feigning indifference. He didn’t know what Gohan thought about the matter, and for once, he didn’t _want_ to know in case it upset their friendship. “The short of it is that Raditz challenged him, and my father rose to it. One warrior was going to survive, and it was Vegeta. Clearly.” 

Gohan’s eyes were twinkling with mischief. “A shame it had to come to that. Do you think anyone is going to challenge you?”

This was a question that Trunks had been asking himself over and over again. Would someone challenge him? Who would it be? Would he be able to win? Trunks stalled answering with taking another bite of fruit. _Tava_ fruit was so bitter that it made him shiver, but Trunks loved it all the same. “If they do, I’m going to have to fight them. I’ll put them in their place, but I don’t want to do any killing.” He looked down at his feet. “I know it’s tradition for at least _one_ Saiyan to die at a coronation, one way or another, but I don’t want that kind of blood on my hands. Father would call me soft, but I suppose I get that from my mother.”

“It’s also _your_ nature too, Trunks. You aren’t like your father, and you aren’t like your mother. You’re your own person, and you need to know that before you let your own doubts drag you down.” Gohan’s voice radiated with quiet intensity. “Don’t try and compare yourself to either. You are separate from them.”

Startled, Trunks stared at the other Saiyan for a painfully long moment before he awkwardly inclined his head, muttering a quiet word of thanks. What was he supposed to say in response to Gohan’s kindness? Gohan was always so genuine and real, whilst Trunks had been taught to hide all weakness and throw up a façade of arrogance and bravado. Everything about Gohan was just so painfully _real_ , and Trunks felt like an actor, a pretender, when in his presence.

“You’re going to need to start heading out.” Seeming to sense that Trunks was uncomfortable, Gohan changed the subject quickly. “It’s almost sunhigh. You don’t want to be late for your own ceremony.” They both knew that it totally was something that Trunks would do; he’d absolutely be late for his own coronation if he didn’t have other people to remind him.

“One of these days, Gohan, I’m gonna kick your ass for ordering your _king_  around.” Trunks set down the almost empty fruit bowl and glared playfully at his friend.

“You’re not a king yet, so I can tease you all I want!” Gohan darted out of the way when Trunks threw a lazy punch at him, his laugh echoing throughout the empty room. “You’ll always be that little, mean looking baby that I got to hold all those years ago.”

“I was _not_ a mean looking baby!” Trunks snapped without much mirth. 

“You were a _very_  mean looking baby. I even thought for a long time that you didn’t like me, before I realized it was just your face!” Gohan was clearly fighting the urge to break out into laughter again.

Trunks glared hotly at the other Saiyan, his upper lip curling over his sharp teeth. He made a show of his snarl. “I’m going to head out now,” he growled, ignoring Gohan’s trill of triumph that broke off into hysteria. “Stop laughing at me, Gohan! That’s an order!”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Gohan couldn’t stop laughing. “It’s funny to see how upset you get over teasing. Your face just seems to be an angry one, Trunks, it isn’t something to be upset over!” When Trunks started to advance on him, Gohan’s hands came up in surrender. “Go on, go! Get going! You need to get there before  _they_  come looking for _you_.” 

With one last eye roll, Trunks flipped his friend off as he left the room, finding that the smile on his face was the first genuine one he had had all day. He took the fastest path through the palace halls, beginning to hurry when he realized just how late he actually was. Trunks liked to be punctual, early even if he could help it, but other Saiyans often didn’t feel the same way. They always made it a point to be late, especially when they knew it would get under the half-breed’s skin. Upon reaching the front doors of the palace, Trunks found himself hesitating, and took one final deep breath before heading outside. It was now or never.

Wanting to get to the Tower of Elders immediately, Trunks avoided the public pathways, knowing that if he mingled with the general public then he’d get ensnared into too many conversations. Not only was he not in the mood to be a pleasant, perfect prince, but he was _late_. Using the tracks that palace staff often used to travel between buildings quickly, Trunks avoids the masses of Saiyans clogging the streets in just a few short minutes. As he slipped into one of the hidden passage ways and started to ascend the stairs, he peered over the ledge to see the absolute madness happening below.

As far as he can see across the grand royal colony that is Chayat City, there are Saiyans practically standing and climbing on top of one another in their desperation to get a look at the famous Arena of Kings. They’re packed in as tightly as the wide streets can allow, all of them trying to get into the Arena and claim their seats. From the height that he was at, he could hear the dull roaring of hundreds of thousands of conversations happening all at once, and Trunks was suddenly reminded that they were all here for _him_. All of them – his subjects – were here to watch him become their crowned monarch. There were Saiyans already packed into the Arena, and there was even _more_ crammed outside of the walls of the city, waiting for admittance.

Saiyans from all over the planet, from all corners of the galaxy, were here. For him. What a way to put the pressure on, right?

With a swallow, Trunks hurried up through the passage, wanting nothing more than for this to be over with. Quietly, he slid open the heavy stone door that led into the Tower of Elders, and was greeted immediately by two towering, imposing forms. The Elders of their species were warriors who committed to be something greater than themselves; ancient, gnarled, and extraordinarily secretive, only the truly elite Saiyan warriors were accepted into their order – and never heard from again. There were rumors that even kings were hidden amongst their ranks, their true names lost to the ages. Those were just rumors.

Trunks was not vocally greeted, aside from deep and respectful bows, nor was he spoken to as the two Elders escorted him inside, one on either side of him. They were a mute bunch, and they kept their faces hidden by excessively large hoods whenever possible. He was not chastised for his tardiness, but he could sense their annoyance like it was his own. Great. He had already upset them.

Trunks, when he was an awful, awful child with an equally awful Goten to encourage him, used to try and provoke the Elders into speaking, but never succeeded. He used to have a theory that the Elders ensured that their vows of silence wouldn’t be broken by sewing their member’s mouths shut, but unless Trunks broke their sacred laws and yanked their hoods off, he would never know. The punishment of doing such a thing had always terrified him more than finding out the truth. That, and his father would promptly murder him for such disrespect.

He was brought inside their preparation room and met by a particularly willowy Elder who immediately begin pulling Trunks’ robes off layer by layer, exposing the scarred skin of his chest and back. The same Elder pulled his hair back into a tight, neat ponytail, and made sure that the long locks didn’t brush against his shoulders. He was guided to kneel on a firm, silky cushion and sit still, and his eyes gazed forward as knobby fingers brushed across the scarred expanse of his back and chest. He could feel the cold, wet texture of paint as it was applied and shuddered, unable to help as gooseflesh raised across his skin. So much for having to wear the robes, huh? He was wondering if his mother made that part up just to see him look nice.

Trunks remained still while the paint dried, all the while watching how the shadows upon the wall danced and played as the light outside changed. When they were finished, they motioned for him to rise and helped him back into his robes, this time doing them up _right_. Trunks had no idea that he did them wrong – and no one said _anything_ , some loyal subjects he had – and couldn’t help his embarrassed flush. He was proven wrong and he did his robes incorrectly, what a _day_ he was having. The Elders took him from the room and led him down a series of corridors that widened into a large, circular platform with a sliding roof overhead.

In the middle of said platform was a man; one of the Vocal, to be more specific. The Vocal was the only one out of the order that was allowed to perform ceremonies, and more importantly, speak. Hence why he was called a Vocal. Trunks had only met two Vocal’s from the order in his lifetime – once when his sister was born, and once when his father died. Both times, he had not seen their faces, nor heard their voice, despite his attempts.

The Vocal was the tallest – and thinnest – Saiyan Trunks had met yet. Somehow, he seemed to look both youthful and ancient at the same time, and his head was completely shaved. As the Vocal turned to face Trunks, he saw that his eyes were sewn shut, and Trunks’ throat grew dry. The Vocal seemed to be covering up all his skin except the skin on his face; his own getup was buttoned up all the way to his jaw, and his hands were covered by thick, muffskin gloves. Was he so deformed underneath the clothing that he had to hide?

“Your highness,” the Saiyan rasped in a strange, bone-chilling tone, the disuse of his voice clear. Trunks already decided he didn’t like him. “My name is High Vocal Erkin.” Ah, so there were _levels_ of Vocal’s. Trunks didn’t like _that_ , either. Really, what he didn’t like was having so little information on an organization that would work very closely with him during his ruling. “I feel so _old_. I preformed this ceremony for your father; it seems not too long ago that he was crowned.”

Trunks didn’t answer. Erkin seemed to take that as a bit of a slight, judging by the wrinkling of his mouth.

“The Arena stadium is filled, overflowing, really. There are even Saiyans camped out in the streets that are here just to be close to you. Your father _loved_  the idea of that. I can see into your heart, Trunks; you do not care for it like you should. Arrogance and pride drove your father, but devotion drives you.” Erkin circled him, practically prowling. If Trunks could see his tail, he was sure it would be lashing. “Your leadership won’t be easy.”

_Great_. _Just what I want to hear_. 

“You will bring great change to our culture. Whether it is good change is up to you.” Erkin sighed, a heavy, haunting sound. Chilling. “When you were born, I held you in my arms and I proclaimed you as the King of all Kings, like I did to your father before you, and like I did to your grandfather before him. But unlike your grandfather, and unlike your father, _I meant it_.”

_I’m sure you tell that to all those who come before you_.

“When I say this, Prince Trunks, I truly mean it. Good luck. I have the greatest faith in you.” Erkin closed in on Trunks and placed his palm on his forehead and the other on his right cheek. Fluttering his lashes, the High Vocal muttered a prayer for blessings and abundance before stepping back and motioning with one hand. The energy in the room disrupted as the platform started to raise, Erkin controlling the speed with his ki. Trunks looked up as the roof above them began to open, letting in bright shafts of sunlight and the insanely loud sounds of cheering. This was it.

_It’s now or never_ , Trunks thought with a long, steadying exhale. Never would have been more preferable.

The platform came to a halting stop as the gears clicked into place and Erkin’s hand lowered. At first the sunlight blinded Trunks, but as his vision adjusted, he was able to see the millions of Saiyans packed into the Arena, most of them practically sitting on top of each other. As he came into their view, the stadium became an oppressive roar of excitement directed towards him. All of them were clamoring to get a good look at him. With all of this attention, Trunks could fool himself into thinking that they liked him. Even  _loved_ him.

His gaze drifted off to the side, where royal family typically was seated, Trunks immediately spotted his mother and his sister, front and center. They were out of the way of the fighting space, _good._ Trunks had a feeling that if he had any challengers, it was going to get messy. Bulma was dressed in one of her finest dresses and was gazing at him with nothing but love. Bra was mostly indifferent, but her hands were clasped in front of her face and she was not taking her eyes off of Trunks. He could see the telltale signs of stress in her expression.

Behind them, standing proper and tall, were Gohan and Goten. Goten winked at him as their gazes locked, and when Trunks looked at Gohan, Gohan smiled supportively. Kakarot slid in behind his sons and took up a protective stance behind Bulma, but his gaze was locked across the Arena and somewhere in the crowd. Trunks went to follow his gaze, but he was interrupted by the High Vocal.

“I, Erkin, High Vocal, give to you – Prince Trunks.” The Vocal’s voice was echoing and loud as it cut across all cheers and conversation, effectively silencing the whole Arena. It was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. How millions of their species could be silent all at once, Trunks had no idea. “The prince, trueborn son of our late King Vegeta, has received the blessings of our ancestors; if our gods be good – then he _will_ be your king!”

The cheering picked up again. Trunks noticed that most, not all, but _most_ of the Saiyans in the stadium were calling his name. Could he count that as a victory? Erkin let the calling go on before silencing it with a wave of his hand. Trunks very suddenly doubted that he’d ever be able to do that. “Victory, in ritual combat, comes by yield or death. If a warrior wishes to step forward into the Arena – I now offer a bid for the throne.”   

An anticipatory silence met the High Vocal’s words, so Erkin turned Trunks’ mother and sister, bowing lowly. Trunks suspected that Erkin was enjoying this. “Would any member of the royal blood wish to challenge?” He offered, though both Bulma and Bra shook their heads. It was rare that there was infighting amongst the royal family, especially to the point of where one sibling would challenge another so publicly. Trunks, knowing his sister, had been half expecting Bra to jokingly make a pass at it, and was incredibly relieved that she didn’t. 

“Would any lower-class warrior wish to challenge for the throne?” Erkin suddenly yowled into the stadium, opening the challenge up to the rest of their race. At first, no one stirred; none wanted to potentially piss off their new ruler, who happened to be a Super Saiyan. But, one Saiyan rose. The warrior had been sitting close to the platform so he climbed up with ease, arms spreading as he entered within earshot distance of Erkin and Trunks. Vaguely, Trunks recognized the Saiyan as Broly, son of Paragus; an old royal advisor. Broly was of age with Trunks, but the disgusted look on his face showed what he thought of Trunks as a ruler. Shit. So it was going to be like that, was it?

“Broly,” Erkin hissed under his breath, “ _what_ are you doing?” 

“It is challenge day.” Broly said it like was the only explanation that made sense. “You offered a bid for the throne, and I am _taking_ it. Ritual combat, High Vocal; it is _not_  out of line.” Turning towards the Saiyans gathered in the stadium, Broly spread his arms wide, his voice raising as he addressed the population. “Warriors of Planet Vegeta,” he cried, “you would let yourselves be ruled by an incompetent half-breed? This weakling you call a prince might be a Super Saiyan, but it means _nothing_! He is not fully _one of us!_ Look at his hair, his eyes; it speaks of his true heritage. His father married a human – a _slave_. Your prince, your princess, they are _pretenders_!”

Broly’s speech was met with strong cheers. True fear woke in Trunks’ stomach, though he did not let it show on his expression. He had to remain impassive. Fuck. This was bad. How many were here today to see him get his ass handed to him by Broly?

“You want this half human creature as your _king_?” Incomprehensible howls of support answered Broly; it seemed to feed his rage all the more. “I, Broly, son of Paragus, will fight for you – the people! I will fight so that no halfling creature sits upon this throne! I will fight so that _your way of life is not torn apart by the son of a slave!_ ” Trunks did not balk when Broly faced him again. He managed to keep his shoulders set and meet his gaze head-on, even though his throat was dry and his hands felt shaky.

“I’d say the people want a fight, Erkin. Are we doing this?” His arrogance was even worse than Vegeta’s, Trunks realized. Broly must truly be confident in his own ability if he was willing to lip off to a High Vocal.

Erkin turned his head towards Trunks, a silent question passing between them. Trunks nodded, knowing Erkin would understand without seeing his face. He would face Broly; this would not be a fight that he backs down from. In this he had no choice.

“The challenge has been accepted.” Erkin relayed to the rest of the stadium, waiting as the roars of excitement died off. As Broly took up his proper place on the other side of the platform, stripping off layers of his clothes as he went, Erkin guided Trunks over to where his mother and sister were sitting, his hand firm upon Trunks’ arm. It was the only thing keeping Trunks standing right now.

“I should have known Broly was going to do something,” Bulma fretted as she came down onto the platform, undoing the fastening on Trunks’ ceremonial robes as she spoke. “Your father never liked Paragus, and Paragus never liked him. You Saiyans and your stupid blood feuds!” Looking into Trunks’ eyes, she quickly calmed. “You can take him; I know you can.”

Mute with stress, Trunks just nodded, letting his mother pull off the final layer. She sucked in a breath when she saw the swirling, intricate designs of paint on his chest, shoulders and back, and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s the exact same as your fathers,” she whispered, gently touching his sternum with a slender finger. “It will bring you luck, Trunks.”

“It is time.” Erkin held out a sword to Trunks, hilt first. Trunks accepted it. Looking at the High Vocal’s face, he found that the Saiyan absolutely did not look pleased. Perhaps it was because _Broly_ of all warriors had challenged him, but Trunks did not know. He would speak to Erkin after the fight, if he survived it.

Across the platform, Broly already had his own sword – perhaps provided to him from Paragus, Trunks supposed – and was pacing. Even though Trunks didn’t know his ki well enough to distinguish his emotions, he could sense that Broly was at the very least nervous; the other Saiyan’s ki was wavering erratically. It was different from the overwhelming energy radiating from the rest of the stadium.

“As stated before: victory is won by yielding, or death. A new addition to our rules of combat is that transforming into a Super Saiyan is off limits.” Broly tried to object at this, but the High Vocal cut him off with a sharp glance. Even with his eyes sewed shut, his expressions could cut. “Flying and energy attacks, as well, are off limits. Violation of such rules will result in the challenge being voided.”

High Vocal Erkin raised his hands up towards the sky, a clear gesture for Broly and Trunks to get into preferred starting positions. Trunks sank down into a defensive pose, holding his sword out in front of him almost like a shield. Broly was choosing to just stand, confident in his own ability to defend against whatever Trunks came at him with. The stadium was absolutely silent again, so quiet that Trunks could hear his own pulse throbbing behind his ears. Broly was a fantastic warrior; his tales of prowess in battle were unmatched. He was the best of their generation – and unfortunately, he was a challenger for a throne that didn’t belong to his family. Broly was a lower-class warrior; either this was a blatant play for more power than he deserved, or his hatred of Trunks and Bra was so strong that he’d be willing to risk disgrace in front of their entire planet in order to take them out.

“Let the challenge commence!” Erkin cried, bringing his arms down to his sides sharply. It was time to begin.

Erkin hadn’t even been off the platform for more than a moment before Broly was launching himself at Trunks, his speed and agility something to fear even without being a Super Saiyan. Trunks narrowly avoided being speared on the edge of Broly’s sword by jumping to the left, his own sword coming up as a barrier between himself and Broly. The force of their swords colliding was enough to make his teeth rattle.

The two Saiyans circled one another, tips of their swords _clack_ ’ing together every few steps. Broly’s lips were curled, exposing his sharp teeth. In the background, the sounds of Saiyans cheering for their chosen victor seemed miles away. “I don’t understand why you hate me so, Broly,” Trunks shook his head in confusion.

“You are weak, Prince _ss_ Trunks.” Broly sneered. “A half-breed mongrel. I will not follow your rule.”

Trunks couldn’t help the quirk of his lips at that. “Then I am sorry, Broly.”

With a cry, Trunks ripped away from their deadly prowl and swung the sword at Broly’s ribs. Broly ducked backwards in enough time to save himself, but his skin parted easily beneath the tip of Trunks’ blade. Trunks was fortunately aware of the fact that he had had training with weapons like this all his life – Broly, most likely, had not. He held the advantage here, as long as he was patient. As long as he struck when was necessary and kept his guard up, he could thwart Broly here and now and show that he would not tolerate any signs of rebellion.

“That was cowardly,” Broly snarled, not seeming phased by the small cut. Trunks didn’t blame him; it was a surface wound, hardly more than a scratch.

Before Trunks could show his triumph over wounding Broly, even just a little bit, the other Saiyan was on the move. Advancing wildly, with careful and precise movements, Broly hacked and cut at Trunks. Trunks barely had enough time to parry the attacks, the blade of his sword taking the worst of the damage. At a particularly hard strike, the sword chipped; the sharp chunk of metal flying somewhere to his left. Well, that was great; Trunks loved that for him.

A well-timed blow cut at his shoulder and another cut at his bare waist. Blood trickled out from both, warmer on his skin than he expected. Broly swiped, hard and fast and true at his chest, but Trunks blocked it just in time. He was so focused on preventing his chest from being hacked open that when Broly swiped his legs out from underneath him, Trunks went crashing onto the platform like a doll, and immediately rolled to the right just in time to avoid Broly running the sword through his brain.

“ _Trunks_!” Bra screamed as Trunks dodged another close blow to the head, feeling his heart pound like wild in his chest. He wasn’t doing well _at all_ ; Broly was playing with him like a cat played with a mouse. He was _letting_  Trunks put distance between them. He was _letting_ Trunks dodge his blows. He was _letting_ Trunks wriggle a little farther from his grasp. Trunks didn’t want Broly to be in control of this, not when it meant his life. This was not some amusing show for Broly to put on and end when he got bored of it.

Clearly, being patient with Broly wasn’t going to work out like Trunks had initially planned. Plan B, whatever it is, was a go then. With a quick, steadying breath Trunks let his anger flood through his being, feeling as his instinct kicked into hyper drive. The world slowed down as Broly went to make a go for him again, but Trunks was faster as he anticipated Broly’s movements.

As Broly arced his sword up, Trunks kicked out at his wrist, hitting him hard enough to make his fingers go slack. Broly dropped the sword as a result and Trunks slid under his outstretched arms to his feet, grabbing the hilts of both their swords as he went. Without hesitation, he threw both swords out of bounds of the platform and turned back to Broly with a pleasant smile.

“Still think you can take me?” He taunted, glad to find that he was slipping into the arrogance he inherited from Vegeta. He would need it.

Broly had put some distance between them. “A momentary lapse in my focus doesn’t mean that you will win.” He spat back, though Trunks could tell that he had gotten underneath Broly’s skin. His eyes were dark, and they weren’t as confident as they were before. “I can beat you without a sword.”

“You can try.” Trunks sneered.

He was ready this time when Broly attacked, and threw his arms up in front of his face to take the worst of the blow. When Broly went to shove his knee into Trunks’ gut, Trunks curved his stomach towards his spine in an attempt to avoid, feeling the displaced air rush around his skin as the blow inevitably missed. In retaliation, he struck out at Broly’s face in quick blows with his fists, and successfully managed to knock Broly back several paces.

Sensing he had the upper hand, Trunks advanced on his foe. While he had the chance, he kicked out sharply at Broly’s left kidney, feeling satisfaction wake in him when Broly faltered. What he wasn’t expecting was for Broly to snap back quickly; one moment, Broly was doubled over and shaking, and the next Broly had collided their foreheads together with so much force that Trunks wondered if he could move a planet with just his head.

Both hands clutched at his forehead before Trunks found himself rolling away on the Arena floor again, his splitting pain momentarily forgotten. Broly was trying his best to crush Trunks’ skull with his boots, the force of his stomping creating spidering cracks in platform below. In a rapid, singular movement, Trunks rolled onto his front and pushed himself to his feet, and managed to jump back a few paces. He wasn’t surprised when Broly matched him step for step, practically chasing him.

If he was going to best Broly, then he was going to have to get the upper hand again. Trunks didn’t want to kill him, no; somehow, he was going to have to _make_ Broly yield. Though, that seemed an impossible feat, especially as Trunks began to wonder if Broly was beatable. The other Saiyan seemed to have barely broken a sweat through all this madness.

_All Broly seems to understand is brute force,_ Trunks thought as he kept skipping backwards, not daring to remove his gaze off of Broly for an instant. _I can’t turn Super Saiyan, and I can’t use ki blasts, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t channel my energy to make my blows more effective. I need to catch him off guard. That means letting him come to me._

Coming abruptly to a stop, Trunks locked himself into place as Broly crashed carelessly into him. As Broly fell back onto the platform, face twisted with aggravation, Trunks took his chance and straddled his chest and became deadweight. Before Broly could object, he pinned the other Saiyan’s arms down with his knees, knowing he didn’t have much time to lose. Without hesitation, he pooled his ki into his fists and lashed out at Broly’s face, landing bone-shattering punch after bone-shattering punch. Blood splattered his face, hot and sticky on his skin.

As expected, Broly writhed beneath him, but did not make a sound – much to his credit. “Yield!” Trunks snarled at him, his knuckles stained red as he pulled away, giving Broly his opportunity. Broly spat a mouthful of blood at him, and a low groan escaping him as Trunks retaliated with another hard punch. “ _Yield_!” He yelled, making himself heard through the commotion coming from the stadium. He couldn’t distinguish if it was cries of horror at Broly losing, or cries of joy at Trunks winning.

What he could hear was Paragus crying out to his son, his voice as clear as a bell. “ _Give it up, Broly, there’s no shame in defeat. Broly, give up!”_

Underneath him, Broly writhed with latent rage, though Trunks knew Broly wouldn’t be getting up without breaking the rules. Broly was thin compared to Trunks, who was on the broader side; Trunks weighed more than Broly did. He hit Broly again, and again, and again, and again, his fists on fire and nose filled with the scent of blood. “Yield, goddamn it, _yield_!” His voice cracked as he yelled.

Somehow, as impossible as it seemed, sense awoke in Broly. In retrospect, this should have scared Trunks. The challenging Saiyan raised his hand in defeat, and spoke aloud in a hushed, broken voice. “I give up.” He said, loudly enough for High Vocal Erkin to hear. Shame was burning in his ki.

“The challenge is finished!” The High Vocal relayed to the stadium as Trunks managed to get to his feet, finding his knees were shaky and his head was spinning. Whether it was from relief or excitement, he didn’t know. “The winner is King Trunks!”

This time, the entire stadium erupted into cheers for him, but Trunks didn’t hear any of it. He could see the near entirety of the Saiyan race on their feet, arms in the air and jumping in excitement, see their open mouths and their pleased expressions, but he heard nothing. Perhaps it was shock that rendered his ears ineffective, or perhaps he was so tired that his body was beginning to fail, Trunks wasn’t sure. What he did know was that when he looked back at where his mother and sister were supposed to be sitting, he saw both of them on their feet; Bulma grabbing at Kakarot’s arms and bouncing around, while Bra was hugging Goten and crying.

A gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Gohan, who had been patting Bra’s shoulder reassuringly moments before, saluted affectionately at Trunks, who blinked his appreciation. Even if most of their species hadn’t believed in him until just moments ago, it didn’t matter. All the support that he needed could be found from his family and from Kakarot’s. They were all he needed from here on out. He was barely paying attention as Erkin placed something heavy atop his head - his crown, he was guessing. It was a bit too big for him; it was fit for his father. If only Vegeta had been here to see this, to see his win over Broly; he would have prided it and rubbed it in Paragus’ face for the rest of his natural life. The idea of it made Trunks feel soft, even happy. Now it was up to him to make sure that Paragus never forgot this slight.

Rousing to attention as Erkin grabbed his wrist and lifted his arm into the air, Trunks checked in long enough to hear him address the stadium again. “Long may King Trunks reign! Tonight, he sleeps with our ancestors – and tomorrow, Planet Vegeta will be under new lead!” The tidal wave of sound that could be called a roar answered him. “Come, Trunks, it is time to return to the Tower of Elders.”

Chancing a look over his shoulder, Trunks found that there was nothing but a small pool of blood on the platform where Broly once was. Paragus, too, was gone; if Trunks had to wager a guess, they were going to get as far as they could from the royal colony in case Trunks decided to punish them. He wasn’t. It had been Broly’s right to exercise his displeasure and challenge him, even if Trunks didn’t like it.

The energy around himself and Erkin displaced once again as Erkin lowered the platform. To Trunks’ surprise, the silence between them was comfortable as the roof closed overtop of them, and darkness encased them once more. Slowly, piece by piece, Trunks began to regain his composure and control over himself. His breathing evened out as he became more aware of the stinging of his trashed knuckles, and as his cuts began to burn.

Looking down at his hands, Trunks forced himself to swallow around the dryness in his throat. They were covered in red – and he was sure that his chest and face were as well. Broly’s blood. Trunks couldn’t _wait_ to wash it off.

As much as a problem Broly would prove to be in the future, Trunks was grateful that he had let Broly live. He had been afraid of having to kill another Saiyan – especially when their ranks were so thin and dropping so dramatically every single year – and what the guilt of doing such a thing would do to him, he didn’t know. He didn’t have the bottomless, remorseless heart that his father had; he had unfortunate human regret and guilt. He could kill bad guys with no problem, but senseless murder for honor and pleasure? That would stick with him for the rest of his life.

Still . . . he had won against Broly, but just barely. Anger and instinct had helped him – but his clear reluctance to kill had held him back. Broly had been willing to do anything to win, which had given him a clear advantage in their fight. _It doesn’t matter_ , Trunks thought as he shook his head. _I won. It’s over._

As the platform clicked into its original place, the High Vocal led Trunks back into the winding passageways and brought him to a new room that he hadn’t been in before. This room was completely bare, like the first room had been, aside from one mirror, a washbasin, and a chair. The silent instructions were clear; he was to wash up and be collected by the Elders when he was finished. Before Erkin left, he took the crown from Trunks’ head and set it inside of a case. The case disappeared, to where it would go, Trunks had no idea. He could think about that later.

Stepping into the room, Trunks dismissed High Vocal Erkin with a dip of his head, his thanks wordless. As hard as this day had been, he had survived it. The worst of it all was over. Thank _God._

Waiting for the door to click shut being the High Vocal, Trunks made his way to the mirror, wincing when he caught sight of his reflection. His left check was purpled, decorated with a nice freckling of red. His nose was crooked, though the blood that had been coming from his nostrils had been smeared across his lips and right cheek. His hair – miraculously – was still somehow still in its ponytail, even though most of it was falling in thick clumps around his face.

It was unfortunate; the markings on his chest and shoulders were smudged by sweat and splattered with blood. The paint, a mint green, ran in rivets down his torso, mixing with his and Broly’s blood and turning into an ugly brown mixture. He was thankful, at least, that the cuts on his torso and shoulder weren’t deep. By nightfall, he was sure they would be almost fully healed.

Picking up the cloth they left for him, Trunks dipped it into the warm water and started in on his chest, finding the process of cleaning himself up therapeutic. The paint came off easily, but blood was a different story. Trunks scrubbed until his hips, torso, chest, back and shoulders were pink from aggravation, making completely sure no trace of the fight was left on him except for his injuries. As he worked on his face, being a tad more careful than before, he was unsurprised when his bottom lip split open. All in all – his face got off lightly this time; Trunks had suffered far worse in the past.

Lastly, he worked on his hands, disgusted at how Broly’s blood seemed to dry into a second skin instead of flaking off. Now that his hands were clean, he could see how completely torn up his knuckles were; the raw skin even more aggravated than before thanks his aggressive cleanup tactics.

Tired to his core, Trunks hadn’t even sat down for more than a moment before there was knocks at the door. _So_ much more exhausted than the time Vegeta had kicked the shit out of him and triggered his Super Saiyan transformation, he got to his feet and let the Elders usher him through a set of double doors and then down a narrow passageway where they had to walk in single file, Trunks in the middle and an Elder in front and behind him.

Though Trunks didn’t like small spaces, he was calm as they went, letting his ki seek out and pinpoint the nearby lifeforms. There were small creatures around them and ahead, but also the High Vocal. As weird as it was, Trunks was coming to recognize his wavering, strangely child-like ki. He absolutely _did not_ like this development.

The passageway gradually began to widen, inch by inch until it opened into a cavern. Once, Bulma told him a story about how the Tower of Elders had been built into the great mountain that kept most of Chayat City in shadow; she told him of how the Tower used to be as tall as the stars back in the day, keeping height with the mountain all the while, but wars and Saiyan nature had decimated both the landscape and reduced the structure to size.

Even though the Tower of Elders was now half the size it once was, and the mountain was just a pile of rubble barely supporting the structure still currently, Trunks wasn’t surprised that the tunnels and caverns were still mostly intact. He didn’t have cause to be worried about the structural integrity of the building, for it had been standing for thousands of years, otherwise he wouldn’t have dared let the Elders bring him back here. It was not going to collapse atop his head after standing for thousands of years.

Trunks’ eyes adjust to the dull lighting in the cavern, gaze immediately being drawn to the patches of _sugar snap_ growing. Looking up, he could see holes in the ceiling where sunlight would filter through, and rain, too, on the rare occasion that the weather changed from constant sun and heat. The light purple petals were practically glowing. Violet _sugar snap_ was a plant native to Planet Vegeta, but with the ever so subtle change of the climate throughout the centuries, the healing herb couldn’t be grown any longer in the regular topsoil. Because they were so useful to heal injuries, they couldn’t be allowed to go extinct, so one of the many King Vegeta’s had mandated that the Elders keep their own garden of them.

Garden being used as a loose term, really. There were mere patches of _sugar snap_ here and there with only a few plants each. The air might be heavy with their sweet scent, but there weren’t nearly as enough as he would have thought. His heart sank into his stomach at the realization.

_This planet is dying. Vegetasei has had enough of our constant abuse._

“You’re absolutely right, Trunks.” High Vocal Erkin was back. He dismissed the other Elders without a word. “Planet Vegeta, Vegetasei, Planet Plant – this world has seen many things through the ages, and these things have taken their toll. You would not believe me, perhaps because it seems so outer worldly, but this planet once was as lush and green and beautiful as Namek, as Earth. Hundreds of thousands of types of flora had existed here. Now, it is little more than a barren wasteland.”

It was troubling that the High Vocal could hear his thoughts. Not wanting to be caught off guard again, Trunks closed himself off, ignoring when Erkin’s ki tried to get a read on him. “I believe you.” Trunks said, and Erkin dropped it.

“Drink this.” Erkin closed the distance between them and handed him a mug.

“What is it?” Trunks asked as he accepted it, bringing it up to his nose to take a sniff. He smelled the bitter scent of _quaski_ and the floral scent of lavender, both herbs from other planets that induce drowsiness. There was a third scent in the hot liquid that he couldn’t place, something bitter. Just the smell of it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. _Gross_.

“It’s something that will relax you. You walk with our ancestors tonight. It will ensure that your nerves won’t keep you awake.” Erkin motioned for him to drink it, so Trunks complied. He knocked it back in one go, hating the way it tasted upon his tongue. It burned his throat on the way down, but to his credit, he didn’t make a face. “Your body will rest while your mind wanders, and when you wake up in the morning, you will know what it is to be a true king.”

With his legs suddenly feeling inexplicably heavy, Trunks moved to sit on the ground, choosing to rest in between a patch of _sugar snap_. The heady scent combined with his bone-weary exhaustion made him want to just lay down and close his eyes, despite there being nothing comfortable for him to rest against. When his eyes closed, feeling heavier than they’ve ever felt before, they did not reopen.

* * *

A gentle breeze tugged at Trunks’ hair, drawing the loose strands of lavender across his face. Annoyed at the ticklish feeling of it, Trunks covered his face with his hands, having to squeeze his eyes shut to keep the light from rousing him from his slumber. He just needed a few more minutes to rest, just a few more . . .

“Get up, Trunks.”

The growling voice, so achingly familiar and dear, made Trunks’ eyes open, though he did not remove his hands. Prodding out with his ki, he searched for the speakers own – but found nothing. There was no energy signature, no presence to detect; the space beside him was empty, despite the fact that Trunks could physically sense a presence.

“Either get up on your own, or I’ll drag you up by the scruff of your neck, boy. There isn’t much time.” Vegeta’s voice was thick with his impatience. “Even I was not this lazy when I dreamed myself into this place.”

Trunks couldn’t help it as he smiled. That was his father alright; Vegeta was the most impatient person in this entire universe, living or dead. Figuring it was better to comply, Trunks pulled his hands from his face and started to make his way to his feet. Nearly starting in surprise, Trunks found that he was dressed here in this dream land. When he had fallen asleep – _that_ he didn’t remember doing – he had only been wearing trousers and his boots. Now, he was wrapped in fine, mauve silks that complimented his skin tone. He didn’t feel neither cold nor warm here, in fact, Trunks didn’t think he felt much physically at all.

It was like a strange disconnect from his body that he couldn’t put into words. He could see that he was dressed, but he couldn’t feel the material on his skin. His feet were in boots, but he did not feel the fur on the inside. The breeze did stir at his hair and displace it, but he didn’t feel it upon his skin. It was almost like all of this was an illusion for his benefit. Curious, he studied his hands in the attempt to distinguish whether or not they were real.

“Admiring the upgrade in wardrobe?” Vegeta inquired icily, eyes of charcoal sizing him up.

“Perhaps,” Trunks replied, matching his father’s indifferent tone. “I never liked wearing fine clothes as much as you did.”

For a moment, Trunks genuinely thought that Vegeta was going to explode. His father was an easy man to provoke; all he had to do was make a comment here and there, and then Vegeta would snap and beat the shit out of him. He saw as the familiar redness tinged Vegeta’s sharp cheekbones and as his jaw set in that stubborn mock-me-again-and-we’ll-see-what-happens way, but Vegeta’s composure won out over his anger.

“Come here, my son.” Vegeta came towards him in quick strides. Trunks was once more surprised as his father embraced him tightly, bringing with him memories of childhood. Out of habit, Trunks leaned into the hug and closed his eyes, ready for Vegeta’s scent to wash over him.

It didn’t.

Despite how real the embrace felt, how _good_ it felt to be near his father again, Trunks knew that it absolutely _wasn’t_ _real_. When he was a boy, Vegeta had told him about this part of the ceremony. His father, the doubter that he was, had said that it was nothing more than a dream; that the drink he had been given had a psychedelic herb in it, and that was why one dreamed so vividly. _Clearly, not vividly enough_ , Trunks thought as he closed his eyes tightly, wanting to relish this for as long as possible.

Vegeta wasn’t an affectionate man, nor was he a hugger in the slightest, but when on the rare occasion that he decided that he wanted to show his appreciation for his family, Trunks never complained. When he was a child, the outward show of affection had been infrequent and unpredictable. Vegeta could go years without so much as laying a hand upon Trunks’ head. But after Bra was born, Vegeta changed course entirely. One time, he had said _I love you_ to Trunks four times in _one week._ A world record for emotionally stunted men like Vegeta.

“Father,” Trunks murmured as Vegeta pulled back. “I . . . I’m not ready for this, to be king.” He ignored as Vegeta shook his head, and cut over his father when Vegeta tried to interrupt him. “I’m not ready to be without _you_. I’m unprepared, I’m –”

“ _Be quiet_ ,” Vegeta cut him off. “You are my son; you are not a prince any longer, but a king. That means you must _act like one_. There is no room for doubt, for grief. You must move past that.” Trunks felt like a child again, being berated for things that he couldn’t control. “My boy, my only son – you will never be ready for it.”

_That_ sounded like Vegeta. The supportive crap was just that; crap. Vegeta’s game was one of insulting you until you realized on your own that yes, you are ready for this. That you _can_ handle it on your own.

“Why are you smiling, what about this is funny to you?” Vegeta’s expression was a deadpan. If Vegeta had been alive, Trunks would have scrambled to make an excuse to appease him.

“It’s not funny, it’s just . . . You sound a lot like him. You do a good job of imitating my father.” Trunks frowned. “I suppose I should be complimenting myself; if it is all in my head, then I’m the one doing all the work.” His frown got deeper. “You told me that this whole dream thing, the meeting with ancestors and shit, was all fake. I love you, dad, but this the tea talking. It isn’t real.”

Vegeta returned his frown tenfold. Trunks didn’t think he’s ever seen his father’s expression twisted so bitterly. “I’ve raised you to be too much of a cynic,” he remarks, watching Trunks with emotionless eyes. “Did it occur to you that I could have been too stubborn to believe that it was true?”

“Oh, I have no doubt. This, though, is a personal thing of mine. Yes, Other World exists, there’s clear proof of that. I don’t distinctly believe in the alignments of ‘heaven’ or ‘hell’.” Trunks used quotations as he spoke. “I don’t believe in spirits visiting you in your sleep all because of an _herb_. I believe that perhaps things can happen in a funny way, that maybe spirits can come through if they’re stubborn or if they have help, but this? I don’t believe in this.” His head shook. “I enjoy visiting with you regardless, even if it’s just a dream.”

“That’s your mother’s logic right there. My cynicism, and her brain.” Vegeta smirked, though it seemed to lack its typical mirth. It was an empty look. “If you believe this to be false, then fine, so be it. I won’t preach to deaf ears. But you must at the very least heed me.” Vegeta looked completely serious now. “You mustn’t trust Paragus and Broly. Kill them, banish them, do whatever it takes; but do not allow them to stay and challenge you at every turn. Send them across the entire galaxy to never return if you must.”

A strike of twisting panic made Trunks feel sick. He had wanted to believe that Paragus, at the very least, was loyal. Broly’s loss he could deal with, but Paragus’? Trunks licked his lips, noting dully that in his dream state he didn’t have the split. Irrelevant and minor compared to the warning. “Are you sure about Paragus?” He croaked, unsure if he wanted to let go of the older warrior’s wisdom and advice. Even if he lived to torment Paragus, Paragus and his easy advice was too essential to his leadership.

“ _Especially_ Paragus.” Vegeta snapped. “He’s the brains of it all. Broly executes his every order like a whipped dog.” Perhaps if Vegeta were still alive, he’d have slipped in an insulting comment there about Trunks. “Get your head out of your ass, boy. Broly is a halfwit, and Paragus is conniving. Do not underestimate them!” The intensity in his voice was burning. “You must protect your mother and your sister from the two of them. S –”

Trunks woke with a start.

Light was filtering through the cracks and holes in the cavern roof, illuminating the beautiful petals of the _sugar snap_. Blinking in confusion, Trunks let out a shaky breath, and realized he was lying on the cold, hard ground. The haunting memory of his father’s voice rang through his eardrums still, tone terse with a slight edge of panic mixed with concern.

_Broly is a halfwit, and Paragus is conniving. Do not underestimate them!_

Sitting up, Trunks brushed his fingers over his wet cheek, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He had been crying. A fair reaction to seeing his deceased father, even if it was just a dream, he supposed.

Thinking of Paragus and Broly, Trunks looked up at the ceiling, finding that each breath was extraordinarily hard to take. Every leader had their issues, had their trials and tribulations, every leader encountered something that they had to work to overcome, but Trunks – in a dramatic, theatrical fashion akin to his father’s own outbursts – wondered desperately _why_ it seemed that he was going to have way more issues than most.

The issues that had plagued his father had been of war, of betrayals and travel development, of proving the Saiyan race wasn’t gone yet. They seemed to be such small problems when compared against the traitorous family, the dying planet, and their failing economy coupled with their outdated way of life – and, still, the ongoing war.

As a king, Trunks had a lot on his hands to deal with. As unfortunate as it was, Trunks doubted that true change could come about until he had established himself as a trustworthy monarch. To gain the trust of _all_ the people, he’d have to dip into savagery, which seemed like such an easy feat for a Saiyan – especially with one like Vegeta for a father.

These were storms that had to be weathered after he gets comfortable as a ruler. To go in immediately, inexperienced and fresh-faced as he was would invite mockery and criticism. Trunks seemed to have a knack for knowing _when the time was right_ for things, as people tended to put it. It wouldn’t be anytime soon. When he was sure that his throne wasn’t going to be swept out from underneath him the second he leaves the royal colony, he was planning on traveling the planet to view the crumbling economy, to witness the slave trade for himself, and to ensure that this planet would out live him. The last thing he wanted to do was relocate his people _again_.

All of these things were issues for another time. For now, all Trunks wanted to do was go back to his quarters, shower, and begin working on his first decree as the King of All Saiyans.


End file.
